Written On My Heart
by FaerieTales4ever
Summary: Glinda doesn't have the courage to tell Elphaba's story…. But maybe she can write it instead. Gelphie friendship. Drabble. COMPLETE


**A/N: I was listening to "Poet," by Bastille, and I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Just a little drabble, but I hope you like it.**

 **Summary: Glinda doesn't have the courage to** _ **tell**_ **Elphaba's story…. But maybe she can write it instead. Gelphie friendship. Drabble. COMPLETE**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing familiar is mine, nothing is for profit.**

 **Written On My Heart**

Glinda the Good let out a long breath as the door to her chambers finally shut for the night. She sank back against it, curling her knees to her chest even beneath the layers of silken fabric. Her skirt billowed around her, draping itself across the floor, not unlike the gowns of royals she'd once admired. All her life, she'd envisioned herself journeying across Oz, beloved by all, and doing everything in her power to make her home a better place.

Now she had everything she'd ever wanted… And wished more than anything that she could give it back.

 _'Cause getting your dreams, it's strange, but it seems a little - well - complicated. There's a kind of a sort of... cost. There's a couple of things get… lost._

Glinda sniffed and brushed the back of her palm against her damp cheeks. What she wouldn't give to talk to Elphaba, if only for one last time.

A lone candle flickering in the sill of her window caught her eye. It was the only light in the pitch black room. Pushing up off of the floor. Glinda followed it's shadows. Just beneath the sill sat her desk. A pad of paper and quill peaked out of the topmost drawer. Glinda sucked in her breath and pulled the drawer open a little further. She brushed the pads of her fingers against the thick, sturdy parchment, a crazy, ridiculatory idea taking shape in her mind as her heart thudded in her ears.

 _If you can't say it, write it._ Her Ama's words came back to her clear as day. Almost of it's own discipline, Glinda's hand slid a piece of paper off of its stack and let it flutter atop the desk. She slipped into the chair, adjusted the angle of the candle-holder, dipped the nearest quill in her open well of ink… And began to write.

 _Dear Elphie,_

 _Someone asked for our- your- story today. Well, actually, they asked if the rumors had been true. If you and I really had been friends, once upon a time… I'm ashamed to say, that even after all this time, even after watching you die to protect the animals of Oz, to protect me, I didn't know what to say. Of course we were friends… but Oz, it was so much more than that. You were the only person to see past my bubbly, blonde exterior, and show me I had what it took to unlock a better life for myself._

 _But, Lurline! How was I supposed to make them understand, when they all insisted you were nothing more than a heartless, cruel,_ wicked _, witch?_

 _I knew I could never convince them, and that it was your dying wish for me not to clear your name… But I shouldn't have let any of that stop me from trying._

 _You said I was unlimited, Elphaba, but after today… I've never in my life felt more like a coward. Here was my back door, my way to tell the truth, without expressly breaking the last promise I'd made to you… And I couldn't do it._

 _Well, no more. You told me not to clear your name, Elphaba Thropp, but that won't stop me from remembering you. Even if you'll never get the chance to read it, I've made a decision._

 _I'm going to write a book. My book. Our book. A way to immortalize your courageous, kind, inspiring spirit; the spirit of my best friend, that still guides me everyday. Even if you are gone, your memories will stay with me always... Like a handprint on my heart._

 _You said it was my job to protect the spirit of Oz when you were gone, so that's exactly what I intend to do. You were that spirit to me, Elphie. And it's my privilege to make sure all of Oz knows it._

 _This way, you will never truly die, but live on forever, as a hero of Oz._

The parchment was damp, littered with tear stains by the time she finished writing, but Glinda wasted no time pushing it to the side. With new resolve, she hefted the remaining parchment onto the desktop and primed her utensil with a new coat of glistening black ink. She only hoped her words would do Elphaba justice.

 _Are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? After all, the Witch had a father; she had a mother, as so many do..._


End file.
